Only The Beginning
by PrincessNala
Summary: "He knew this would happen, and you still won't leave because you're a self-sacrificing idiot. You're the one he'll burn to get to me, can't you see that?" Sherlock/John


**Heya everyone, me again :D Now this is sort of a companion fic to This 'Caring' Lark. NOT a sequel, just another version of what could've happened at the end of The Great Game, but this time from John's POV. I've used some quotes from the series again, but this time they're from all three episodes because I didn't want to do the same ones as I used in the other fic. :)**

**This is longer than the other one, and to be honest, I don't like it as much as I like the other, but it's ok. Why is it harder to do John's POV than it is Sherlock's? That doesn't even make sense haha XD**

**Anyways, read on and review for me, ta!**

**Oooh, it's gets a bit intimate near the end, but don't worry, it's pretty vague on the details.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing whatsoever.**

* * *

"_Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."_

"_Is that it?"_

"_Is that what?"_

"_We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat."  
"Problem?"_

_"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."_

_"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."_

* * *

Right from the very first moment they'd met, John had known that his life would never be the same again.

Ah, Sherlock Holmes. God, even the man's name was impressive. Especially when he introduced himself with that deep silky baritone voice of his that practically made him sound like royalty. He'd certainly acted like royalty; imperious, aloof and untouchable, and John literally hadn't known what to think of the dark-haired consulting detective. To be honest, sometimes he _still_ didn't know what to think of him, but then again they'd only been living together for a few weeks now. John reckoned it'd probably take about a decade before he fully understood the complexities of Sherlock Holmes. Hell, maybe more than a decade.

Or maybe he'd never understand. But that was all just part of the mystery that was Sherlock. You never knew what was going to happen next.

"_How do you feel about the violin?"_

"_I'm sorry, what?"_

"_I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."_

If John had known what he was getting himself into, would he have reconsidered moving into a flat with an eccentric man who he'd known for a grand total of five minutes? The very same man who could just take one look at him and practically recite his life story as though it was the most obvious thing in the world? No, not for an instant. In fact, in John's mind, meeting Sherlock was probably one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

The man was a genius. There was no questioning that. A socially awkward, somewhat arrogant, easily bored and highly unpredictable genius, sure, but a genius nonetheless.

And not to mention a huge pain in the arse sometimes too. John had seriously considered punching Sherlock when he'd summoned him back to their flat from the opposite end of the city just to borrow his phone, when all he had to do was get up off his backside and walk downstairs to lend Mrs Hudson's, and John had lost count of how many times he'd been rudely woken up at ridiculous hours of the morning to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. John could've shouted down and told Sherlock exactly where he could stick that infernal violin bow, but what was the point? Sherlock would've just ignored him and played even louder, just out of childish spite.

"_What do you think, then, Dr Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."_

"_Of course we'll be needing two."_

"_Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here."_

John was undoubtedly a thrill-seeker. He couldn't help it. The thirst for danger and adventure was just one of his many, many flaws. Perhaps that was one of the subconscious reasons why he'd joined the army in the first place, and perhaps that was also why he stuck so closely by Sherlock's side, because wherever that man went, danger was never too far behind. He could easily turn something as small as trip to the supermarket into an international incident! Huh, that would explain why John was always the one who had to go fetch the milk or bread whenever they ran out, which was pretty much every damn day.

Just what exactly did Sherlock _do_ with all their groceries? In fact, scratch that, John didn't want to know. It'd be something to do with one of his frequent strange experiments or whatever. As long as it was just milk though, not various body parts borrowed from the local morgue hidden in random places around the flat, as were his usual favourite items used in his experimentation.

Or it could just be the fact that the milk always went off because Sherlock liked removing it from the fridge to make room for yet another severed head.

"_You've seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."_

"_Well, yes."_

"_Bit of trouble too, I bet."_

"_Of course, yes. Enough to last a lifetime. Far too much."_

"_Want to see some more?"_

"_Oh, God, yes."_

It was inevitable that Sherlock would have enemies. All you had to do was stand in his company for about ten seconds to realise that he wasn't exactly the type of man to have many friends. He kept everyone carefully at arm's length seemingly instinctively, deeming them boring as his intellect was by far superior than the average human being's. Now John knew he fell neatly into the 'average human being' category. He was neither incredibly smart, nor incredibly stupid, just a happy medium which suited him fine.

So why had Sherlock taken such an interest in him? It's not like he was special or anything. He was no different to anyone else, with the exception of being a psychosomatically-crippled ex-army medic, and he wasn't even that any more. Now he was just an ex-army medic. Hardly interesting to someone like Sherlock Holmes.

And yet, here he was, living in a flat with him, solving impossible and exhilarating cases with him, and seriously loving every minute of the ride.

Well, every minute apart from those in which he'd had a bomb strapped to his chest. That had been a definite nose-dive for John, not only because he could quite literally explode at any second, but because he had been used as a pawn against Sherlock in that stupid dangerous game of cat and mouse he and the psychopathic Jim Moriarty had going on to cure their boredom.

"_That... was amazing."_

_"Do you think so?"_

"_Of course it was, it was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."_

"_That's not what people normally say."_

_"What do people normally say?"_

_"'Piss off'."_

It'd been then that John had seen a less superior version of Sherlock Holmes. The dark-haired man had been _worried_ about him. His face might've remained as impassive as ever as he and Moriarty exchanged words, but his piercing grey-blue eyes kept flickering back over to John every couple of seconds, so much so that even Moriarty had noticed. But then again, that'd really been the suited man's plan all along. John wouldn't have even been there otherwise.

At one point, John had tried to play the hero, but that hadn't worked out how he'd planned. He'd grabbed Moriarty from behind and told him that if any of his snipers took a shot, then they'd both be blown straight to hell. John had shouted at Sherlock to run too, but typical Sherlock Holmes didn't move an inch.

Moriarty's snipers had somehow expected John's offer of self-sacrifice, for no sooner had John seized hold of the bastard, a red dot of light suddenly appeared dead centre on Sherlock's forehead. John had never let go of someone so quick in his life, and couldn't help but feel immensely grateful when the red lights were aimed back at his chest again and not at his flatmate.

"_But you're not his friend. He doesn't have friends."_

When Moriarty had eventually left, Sherlock had thrown himself at John's feet so fast that the smaller man had literally blinked and missed the movement, feeling long pale fingers scrabble at the explosive vest and then tear it off viciously along with the large heavy parka John had been forced to wear to hide the bomb. Sherlock had then flung them both to the opposite end of the room, his chest rising and falling harshly as he breathed a lot shallower and faster than usual.

The amount of pure relief John felt when he was finally free of that explosive had been indescribable and he'd all but collapsed against one of the poolside cubicles as Sherlock paced up and down as though he was trying to calm himself, scratching at the back of his dark brown curls with the barrel of the Browning L9A1.

And Sherlock had thanked him. Bloody hell, John hadn't expected that at all. Granted, it hadn't been a straight out 'Thank you', but rather a really roundabout way of saying it without actually mentioning those two words.

But that didn't matter, because John fully understood the uncharacteristic show of gratitude. He wondered if he'd been the first person who'd ever offered to do what he did for the other man, putting himself on the line in order to save Sherlock's life.

He must've been, judging by the way Sherlock's eyes had widened in surprise when he did it.

"_He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off."_

Then John made a light-hearted sexual joke to break the tension. Bad idea, as it turned out, because the mental images that followed it damn near made him swallow his own tongue from the sheer overpowering force of them.

He hadn't had chance to dwell on them, though, (thank God for that), since Moriarty and his sniper friends reappeared, and Sherlock decided that it'd be a good idea to aim his gun at the incendiary device that was now at the other dark-haired man's feet.

It was nothing short of a miracle that they'd survived that explosion at all.

That moment when Sherlock had pulled the trigger, John would've literally sold his soul if he could, just for a tiny insight into what the _bloody hell_ the taller man had been thinking. Sure, it'd saved their lives, but it'd been nothing if not suicidal on Sherlock's part, and the detective would've undoubtedly gone up in flames with the rest of the building if John hadn't tackled him into the pool at the very last second. Well, John had started to tackle him, but the explosion itself had definitely helped them along, the force of the blast lifting them airborne for several seconds before they'd plunged into the water and out of immediate harm's way.

"_Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."_

They were back at 221B Baker Street now, clutching onto each other for support as they sluggishly climbed the stairs to their shared flat. John didn't need to look in a mirror to know that they were both a right mess, covered from head to foot in ash and stray bits of debris, their soaked clothes trailing droplets of water, both physically and emotionally drained to the point that John thought his legs would just give out at any second and he'd simply pass out wherever he fell. Somehow, he forced himself on, though. It must've been the soldier in him.

Obviously the explosion hadn't gone unnoticed, and less than ten minutes after the blast came the sound of approaching police sirens in the distance. Oddly, Sherlock hadn't wanted to hang around, insisting that he and John got out of there before the police arrived. Why? John had no idea, but he was in no mood to question the detective, so they'd fled the scene just like Moriarty and his gang of snipers had.

Speaking of the snipers, John found it strange that none of them had actually fired a single shot. Had Moriarty put them there just to bully Sherlock into complying with him, but hadn't actually given any orders for his men to shoot? Hell, were they even snipers at all? It could've just been someone shining a red light on them to make them believe they were in the crosshairs of God knows how many rifles! He didn't know, and he probably never would know, either.

"_What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"_

"_I don't have one. I barely know him, I met him... yesterday."_

"_Mm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"_

Sherlock had been unusually silent as they'd slowly but surely made their way home from the bombsite. He was still impossibly quiet even now as John fumbled in his sopping jeans pocket for the key to their apartment, his hypnotic grey-blue eyes staring at the painted wood without really seeing it.

They knew Moriarty hadn't died in the explosion. John had caught sight of the dark-suited man sprinting through the nearest exit as he'd thrown himself bodily into Sherlock and into the pool. Maybe that's what Sherlock was so lost in thought about, but then again, who knew what went on in that incredible brain of his?

John's hands shook as he forced the key into the lock and opened the door. He would've undoubtedly fallen straight inside if it weren't for the detective beside him who'd found his feet with remarkable ease and led them into the dark, cluttered flat.

Without warning, Sherlock removed his heavy arm from around John's shoulders so abruptly that the smaller man staggered into the doorframe at the sudden loss of physical support, belatedly realising that the taller man had grabbed him by the nearest elbow to steady him.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, just like he had done back at the pool, but for some reason he wouldn't meet John's gaze, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the other man's face. What was that all about?

"Yeah, I'm good. I'm fine." John replied as convincingly as he could. He tried to ignore the small spike of hurt that jolted through his chest, but he couldn't quite manage it.

"_You're very loyal __**very**__ quickly."_

Sherlock nodded in response and let go of John's elbow, turning away from him. Neither of them had thought to flick the light switch by the door on their way past, so the moonlight that shone through the windows was the only thing that lit up the cluttered space enough for them to see where they were going.

John's tawny eyes followed Sherlock through the gloom, a frown of concern and confusion creasing his brow. Sherlock didn't say anything as he walked over to his favourite armchair and sunk down into it, one arm flopping limply over the chair arm as though he'd completely lost the energy to keep it from falling. His usually bright eyes were dull and downcast, staring at the carpet in the same way he'd stared at the door a few seconds ago, his damp dark brown curls drying against his pale skin that was almost luminescent in the glow of the moon.

The ex-army medic watched his flatmate for a moment until it was became obvious that Sherlock had no intention of moving from that spot for a while, so John looked away, kicking the door shut with the heel of his shoe as he struggled to pull off his soggy sweater. There was absolutely nothing he could do to salvage the ruined material. It'd been his favourite sweater too, but John couldn't bring himself to care.

All that really mattered was that he and Sherlock were alive. So what if Moriarty and his snipers had gotten away? John would be glad if he never saw that psychotic bastard ever again.

"_Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"_

But he knew they'd meet again. It was inevitable, really. Sherlock wouldn't just let the man go, and Moriarty definitely wouldn't let Sherlock and John walk away scot-free when he wanted them dead. Nope, soon they'd be up to their necks in impossible life-threatening situations thrown at them from all angles by the 'consulting criminal' until one of the three of them eventually ran out of luck.

John balled up his sweater and threw it uncaringly aside. A dull throbbing pain spread across his forehead from the movement and he groaned slightly under his breath, bringing his hands up to cradle his face and pressing his palms hard enough against his eyes to make his vision go blurry. God, his head was _killing_ him. He must've been hit in the explosion, struck by a falling chunk of ceiling or something, but he couldn't remember. Those few seconds had passed by in a jumbled haze of colour and sound, and all he could recall was the flare of heat from the flames and the sudden shocking contrast of the cold water, and the comfortable solidness of Sherlock's slender body in his grip as he'd launched them both into the pool.

That was the most physically close John had ever been to the other man. He'd practically wrapped himself around him! It wouldn't really have been that much of a problem if John hadn't realised just how much he'd liked the contact, despite the situation.

"_She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."_

"_And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are."_

Sherlock had smelt good, too. A warm, rich scent, a pleasant mixture of coffee, cinnamon and wood polish. John knew he wouldn't be able to get that scent out of his head anytime soon.

Just like its owner, then, in that aspect. Because John couldn't get Sherlock Holmes out of his head either, and it'd been like that from the very moment they'd met a few weeks back. Everything about the detective was just… unforgettable. Everything from the slim-cut suits, flowing coats and thick woollen scarves he wore down to the paleness of his porcelain skin that somehow looked both smooth and hard at the same time, and especially those piercing grey-blue eyes that practically radiated intelligence from several yards away. Even his slightly androgynous features were such a perfect blend of masculine and feminine qualities that made Sherlock Holmes quite literally the most stunning man John had ever seen in his life. And that was just in appearance alone. Because as stunning as Sherlock was physically, his brain was even more magnificent.

From a single glance, Sherlock had deduced things about John that had made him feel as though the taller dark-haired man had simply opened his mind and just read him like a book. John should've been unnerved by the other man's talent for deduction, just as anyone else would, but for some reason he wasn't. He was in awe of Sherlock. The man was brilliant! He was fascinating and mysterious, and every tiny thing about him seemed to draw John in further and further before he even realised what was happening. There was never a dull moment sharing a flat with the self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath' that was Sherlock Holmes.

Especially not when John was falling for the man more and more with every passing day.

"_You don't have a girlfriend, then?"_

"_Girlfriend? No, not really my area."_

"_Oh, right. Do you have a... boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."_

"_I know it's fine."_

"_So you've got a boyfriend, then."_

"_No."_

Sherlock's sexual preference was about as mysterious as he was, and John couldn't for the life of him figure out if the detective was heterosexual, homosexual or bisexual. Christ, he didn't even seem to be _any_ of them. Asexual, more likely.

But John couldn't really imagine him with a woman. To be honest, he couldn't really imagine Sherlock with anyone... except him, of course. Oh, God, John could definitely imagine himself with Sherlock, and had imagined it many, many times. Not that he'd ever admit that, of course.

His heart was usually torn between racing or just stopping completely whenever John found himself caught in that unblinking grey-blue stare, and whenever the dark-haired man came close, John's pulse would just about skyrocket no matter what the situation. It was seriously starting to get out of hand, and if he kept up like this, it would only be a matter of time before his... _attraction_... to the other man become so glaringly obvious that the consulting detective would be able to read it from his face just as easily as he could read everything and everyone else. John was pretty proud of himself keeping his feelings towards Sherlock secret up to now.

Even though every single damn person they met automatically assumed they were together anyway, which definitely didn't help at all. He was sick of telling people that no, they weren't partners in _that_ sense, no, he wasn't his boyfriend, no, they weren't dating, and yes, they damn well need two bedrooms. The main reason he did that was because every single time it reminded him of how much he _wanted_ it to be true. He wanted to be with Sherlock Holmes, and he wanted it so desperately that it actually hurt sometimes.

One thing he'd noticed, though, was that Sherlock never corrected people when they made that assumption. Did that mean anything? Knowing Sherlock, probably not.

"_This is how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."_

"_Why would I do that?"_

"_Because you're an idiot."_

John had never intended to fall for Sherlock. But then again, people rarely intend to fall in love, do they? It just happens, like a hit and run, and suddenly they're so far out of their depth and sinking deeper with no way to stop themselves. And that's exactly how John Watson felt.

Bloody hell, John hadn't even realised his own sexual preference until he found himself fantasising about doing things with Sherlock that would make even the detective himself lost for words, and would probably require quite a bit of contortionism to achieve said _things_, but then again, he'd always had a pretty vivid imagination.

At first, he'd understandably been in denial. And that's where Sarah came in. She was a nice person and all, pretty and smart, with a great personality, but she just wasn't right. John couldn't help but feel so awkward when she looped her arm through his, or stood close enough beside him that he could feel the heat of her body and smell her flowery perfume.

He didn't want Sarah. God help him, he wanted Sherlock Holmes.

John brought his head slowly up from where he'd buried it in his hands, ignoring the irritating ache across his skull as he fixed his tawny gaze on the man in question. And he immediately realised that something was _very_ wrong.

Sherlock looked different, somehow. John couldn't explain it, nor did he have the deduction talents of his flatmate, but he could definitely tell that something had changed in the other man's demeanour. Sherlock's body was stooped forwards slightly and his hair hung lifelessly down in front of his eyes, casting dark shadows across the pale skin that made his features look thinner and more ashen than usual.

He looked… beaten. Almost haunted, in a way, and that made John's blood run freezing cold in his veins.

"_We need to get some air. We're going out tonight."_

"_Actually, I've, uh, got a date."_

"_What?"_

"_It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."_

"_That's what I was suggesting."_

"_No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not."_

"Sherlock?" John asked, his concern for his flatmate only too obvious, "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." The detective replied, his baritone voice carefully neutral. His long white fingers twitched like the legs of a dying spider where they hung over the edge of the chair, and even John didn't need an intellect the size of Sherlock's own to know that the other man was lying.

"You're not hurt, are you?" John pressed as he scanned Sherlock's entire form with the critical eye of a doctor, searching for any signs of injury. He didn't miss how Sherlock's jaw tightened and his intense grey-blue eyes flashed back to their usual brightness for a split second.

"No. I'm _fine_." Sherlock responded a little sharper this time, obviously irritated that the other man wouldn't take his word at face value. The sceptical silence that followed was enough to make Sherlock exhale loudly in annoyance and he lifted his head up to fix John fully in his piercing stare for the first time since they'd entered the flat.

John just looked at him, his eyebrows slightly raised.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, scowling at the ex-army medic from beneath the dark curls that hung down in front of his eyes. John sighed and shook his head, running one hand back through his greying mousy hair in exasperation.

"You don't have to lie to me, Sherlock." He told him. Sherlock's scowl deepened for a second, then his face smoothed out into its usual expression of imperious aloofness.

"Why not? You lied to me first, so why shouldn't I return the favour?"

"_How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"_

"_Late?"_

"Wait, what? I haven't lied to you." John replied, totally bewildered. What could he have possibly lied about? He didn't... he couldn't remember if he had or not, but surely... God, why did his head hurt so damn much! No wonder he couldn't bloody think!

Sherlock stood up from his chair, brushed stray bits of damp ash off the front of his suit jacket and made his way over to John, staring at the shorter man with his head tilted slightly curiously to the side.

"You do realise that that wound on your head is dripping blood all down the side of your face? You told me you were fine, and that was a lie, because you're clearly anything but."

John brought his hand up and touched the right side of his head where the pain still lingered. His fingers came away red and sticky, and he swore under his breath. There was quite a lot of the crimson liquid smeared down his face, so it must've been bleeding a while, but it didn't feel deep enough to need any stitches. But judging by the expression on Sherlock's face, it must've looked a lot worse than it actually was.

"I'll go get a towel or something." John murmured, flashing Sherlock a slightly sheepish smile, but it probably came out more like a pained grimace due to the fact that Sherlock decided he wanted to prod his fingers in John's wound too.

Only it wasn't his fingers. Without a second's hesitation, Sherlock had shrugged off his suit jacket, unfastened one cuff and proceeded to clean the scarlet mess from John's face with the still-soggy soft material of his white shirtsleeve.

"_What the __**hell**__ are you doing?"_

"_Bored."_

"_What?"_

"_Bored! Bored! Bored! I don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them."_

Their faces were so close together that John could feel the warmth of Sherlock's breath ghost against his face as the taller man dabbed at his forehead, his gaze focused entirely on his work. John just stood there like a deer trapped in the headlights, his tawny eyes wide and his heart pounding so hard in his ribcage that he was sure the other man could hear it.

Too close, _way_ too close for comfort. His own breathing was a hell of a lot shallower than it was a few minutes ago and his face felt impossibly hot. Oh God, Sherlock, move away, please, step back before he did something he'd _really_ regret...

Sherlock's gaze flickered to meet John's for a split-second, something swirling in those grey-blue depths that John couldn't quite put a name to before the taller man returned his eyes back up to the injury he was still cleaning with his shirtsleeve.

"You really should leave, you know." Sherlock said, making John jump a little at the unexpected sound of his calm baritone voice, "You're going to get injured a lot more than this if you stay with me. There's always some criminal out there who wants to kill me, and kill whoever's associated with me. It'd be better if you left."

_Oh_. So that's what it was. _Guilt_. Sherlock felt guilty for John being hurt, and for John being strapped to that bomb just because he was the closest person to a friend that the detective had probably ever had. John glanced up at the other man.

"Do you want me to leave?" He asked, almost dreading the answer, because if Sherlock said 'yes', then he might as well have stabbed John in the chest and torn out his heart, because that'd be exactly how it would feel to him.

Sherlock frowned, his brow creasing as he met John's gaze with an expression of vague confusion. It was quite adorable actually, not that John would ever tell his flatmate that, because he'd _never_ live it down.

"I never said that." Sherlock replied, looking as though the insinuation that he had said that was insultingly absurd.

"Good." John smiled, and the detective's hand paused mid-dab on his face, "Because I'm not going anywhere."

"_There's a head in the fridge."_

"_Yes…"_

"_A bloody head!"_

"_Where else was I supposed to put it?"_

"No, of course you're not." Sherlock said thoughtfully. And then he flashed a wide white grin down at the ex-army medic, not realising the consequences of dazzling his flatmate with one of his rare genuine smiles that literally took the smaller man's breath away.

Perhaps if Sherlock's face had been half an inch further away from his, John probably wouldn't have done anything other stand there and suffer the unbelievably good/bad effects of that damned smile.

But that half an inch made all the difference, because Sherlock's soft full lips looked even more sinfully tempting from _half an inch away_, and John just couldn't resist closing that infinitesimally tiny gap between them and capturing those lips with his, fully intending to take Sherlock's breath away for a change.

Oh God, he'd wanted this for so long! He'd imagined what Sherlock's mouth would feel like against his, what the detective would taste like, but he'd never expected that he'd really find out, especially not like this.

It ended as abruptly as it began, and the very second John's rationality came flooding back to him from wherever it'd momentarily disappeared from, he pulled back from Sherlock so sharply that he nearly cracked his head on the door behind him.

He shut his eyes tightly so he wouldn't have to see the expression on Sherlock's face, wishing with every fibre of his being that he could just run away and keep on running, but the taller man's body was blocking his escape.

"_Did you like it?"_

"_Erm… No."_

"_Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."_

"_Flattered? 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds, what's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'."_

"_Now hang on a minute, I didn't mean that in a – "_

"_Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way…"_

A somewhat stunned silence had fallen over the two of them for what seemed like an age, and when he couldn't bear it anymore, John opened his eyes, automatically fearing the worst.

But Jesus Christ, was he wrong.

Sherlock Holmes was staring down at him with a gaze so full of surprise, satisfaction and _lust_ that John literally felt as though he was about to be devoured. The taller man's mouth quirked upwards into a small but warm smile and he took John's face gently in his hands, pressing their lips back together again.

When the overall shock of it had vanished, John just lost himself in the feel of Sherlock's mouth against his and he started to kiss back, bringing his hands up to bury them in the detective's mop of unruly dark curls with a sigh of pure contentment.

The longer the kiss went on, the more passionate it became. John found himself being backed up against the wall and held there by a warm slender body as they kissed heatedly. And it didn't seem like they were just going to stop at kissing, neither, since Sherlock's hands were literally everywhere at once, exploring every inch of John's body almost greedily as he refused to surface for oxygen.

"Bloody… _hell_… Sherlock!" John gasped when they eventually broke apart to breathe, his mind whirling impossibly fast as Sherlock dipped his head to bury his face in the junction between John's neck and shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the skin beneath his lips that made the smaller man bite back a groan of pleasure.

"This is what he meant," Sherlock murmured into John's throat, his mouth brushing against John's tanned flesh with every word, "He knew this would happen, and you still won't leave because you're a self-sacrificing _idiot_. You're the one he'll burn to get to me, can't you see that?"

"_Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?"_

"_If you want me to."_

"_Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."_

John didn't need to ask whom the detective was talking about, because it was so blatantly obvious. And he didn't care. Let Moriarty burn him. Let him fucking _try_, because if that was how Moriarty intended to play them, then John would be damned before he went down without a fight.

Sherlock lifted his head and stared down at John, his grey-blue eyes serious and almost pleading.

"Not if we burn him first." John said firmly, his hands tracing down the sides of Sherlock's stunning facial features, grazing over his prominent cheekbones with his thumbs. "We will find him, Sherlock, and we'll do it together, so stop trying to get rid of me and shut up and kiss me!"

Sherlock laughed delightedly, the sound surprising them both before he happily swooped down again and obliged, his hands coming to rest low on John's slim hips as the shorter man reached up and twined his arms around Sherlock's pale neck, holding him close.

Nothing else needed to be said after that. Sherlock tugged John over to the sofa and they fell down together on it, slowly undressing each other and letting their hands and mouths memorise every single inch of both pale and tanned skin. John needed this so badly, wanted Sherlock so badly that he could barely restrain himself, but that was ok, because Sherlock seemed to feel exactly the same way about him.

Sherlock was everything John had dreamed he would be and more. He was commanding and dominant, and knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. He had to have been with another man before, because the things he did to him with his mouth and hands were definitely nothing to do with beginner's luck. But despite that, Sherlock was a surprisingly tender lover, entwining their hands as they moved together and lavishing kisses all over John's face and chest almost in reverence.

And the sight of an unclothed Sherlock Holmes sat astride him, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight and his grey-blue eyes dark with desire as he stared unabashedly down at the man beneath him was without a doubt the most beautiful thing John had ever seen in his entire life.

"_Let him go, or I __**will**__ kill you."_

When morning came, John woke to find himself not on the sofa, but on the floor with Sherlock Holmes laid right there on the carpet beside him, their bare legs entwined and Sherlock's arm wrapped tightly around John's waist, snoring gently in the smaller man's ear. It was quite a pleasant way to wake up, actually, and John made a mental note to wake up like this more often. Only perhaps on a bed next time, not the floor.

John arched a little in Sherlock's grip, stretching out his aching muscles at the same time as trying not to wake the other man up. It didn't work though, because Sherlock stirred and tightened his hold, snuggling his face sleepily into John's mousy hair.

"Don't move." He mumbled, yawning as he curled around John like a contented cat.

"Why?"

"You're comfy. And warm."

John smiled and shook his head fondly, relaxing back against Sherlock's bare chest. God, he hoped Mrs Hudson didn't randomly burst in right now, because she'd definitely see something she wouldn't forget any time soon.

He could've laid like that forever, wrapped firmly in the embrace of Sherlock Holmes. Everything would be different now. And to be honest, John wouldn't really have it any other way.

John reached down to the arm around his waist and rested his own hand on top of it.

For Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, this was only the beginning.

* * *

**So what d'you think?**

**I had too many ideas for this and I couldn't fit them all in, so I'm guessing that means there's going to be some more Sherlock fanfics in the works from me :)**

**Probably not in this format though. Might try something different next time ;p**


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